


second star to the right

by littlesnowpea



Series: dear gravity (you held me down) [1]
Category: Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Space, Alternate Universe - Star Trek Fusion, M/M, Space Husbands, Space Pirates, Star Trek: AOS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-24
Updated: 2016-08-24
Packaged: 2018-08-10 20:47:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7860535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlesnowpea/pseuds/littlesnowpea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If you had told Captain Pete Wentz that in just two and a half short years he would go from choosing the cleanest-looking fork off his kitchen counter to eat five day old chow mein with to becoming the captain of Starfleet’s brand spanking new flagship starship the Clandestine, he would have told you to get fucked. </p><p>Now, of course, he wouldn’t say any such thing. At least not on record. He still swears plenty off the record, causing Commander Stump to turn interesting shades of red and sputter on and on about decorum.</p>
            </blockquote>





	second star to the right

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sunflashes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflashes/gifts).



> LISTEN I LOVE STAR TREK OK
> 
> anyway this fic came to me halfway through my second viewing of star trek: beyond and i sat in that theater and ruined my best friend's day by whispering "what if there were space pirates in star trek" to him.
> 
> so this is that story. space pirates in star trek with the boys as starfleet officers. 
> 
> you're welcome and also i'm sorry. 
> 
> i tried to be as technically correct as i could be considering my degree was not actually in astrophysical technology. i also tried to be not as boring as it could have been while remaining technically accurate. 
> 
> you'll notice the lack of shane morris as a typical bad guy. i'm trying this new thing where i don't make him the bad guy in every single fic. i'll let you know how it works out. 
> 
> part one of many in my new series!

If you had told Captain Pete Wentz that in just two and a half short years he would go from choosing the cleanest-looking fork off his kitchen counter to eat five day old chow mein with to becoming the captain of Starfleet’s brand spanking new flagship starship the _Clandestine_ , he would have told you to get fucked. 

Now, of course, he wouldn’t say any such thing. At least not on record. He still swears plenty off the record, causing Commander Stump to turn interesting shades of red and sputter on and on about decorum. 

The fact that he became a captain in the first place isn’t so weird. Beating the legendary Admiral Kirk’s time isn’t so weird, either, although to have the man himself clap him on the shoulder and call him _son_ during his promotion to Admiral was a little off-putting. 

Still, he thought to himself as he threw together what little he owned in preparation for their first five-year mission, he didn’t exactly say he was ready to command a ship for five long years in space. Didn’t exactly approve the mission, didn’t exactly say yes to the captainship so much as was pressured into accepting the captainship. 

Despite all evidence to the contrary, Starfleet decided that Pete Wentz was not only captain material, but captain of their brand new flagship material, and he’d be hard pressed to let them down. 

—

Second in command. Second in command to an actual _child_. Oh, there would be hell to pay for this. Hell to pay to whoever thought that Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz the third, a man all but cemented in Starfleet Academy fame for joining for the sole purpose of fucking everything up, deserved the Captain’s chair. Didn’t Patrick, someone who’d wanted to join Starfleet basically since birth, someone who got through the Academy in a year where it took most people three, someone with exemplary leadership qualities, and he quoted Professor Spock, “ _an eye for detail and the know-how to resolve any type of dispute_ ” deserve the Captain’s chair _so much more_ than Pete “I Couldn’t Care Less” Wentz?

“It might be your anger issues,” Andy told him when he’d quoted all this verbatim to him two days ago. “I’m told they’re breathtaking. Not that I have any experience with them at all.” 

He’d told Andy to _shut the fuck up, bitch_ and then bought him two full pounds of vegan chocolates from the Cardassian chocolatier down the street for acting like an asshole. 

Still. Second in command. And it wasn’t like Andy could complain. CMO of the _Clandestine_ was a pretty picture, especially for a first time medical officer to Starfleet. Patrick said it was because of Andy’s personality and character. Andy said it was because he once stitched two patients together accidentally with the dermal regenerator and instead of owning up to his mistake convinced them both that they had asked him to do it. 

Seriously. It was kind of legend. 

The point is, Patrick deserved to be Captain. Deserved it so much more than Pete did, and he didn’t care if Pete knew he thought that. 

“Are you jealous?” Pete asked breathlessly, kissing along Patrick’s neck until he was fighting a moan. “You never struck me as the jealous type at the Academy. Or on the _Vulcan_. Remember when we were Ensigns?”

“Like it was yesterday,” Patrick said crossly. “I don’t want to be First Officer, Pete. That’s not what I joined Starfleet for.”

Pete pulled away to send Patrick a hurt look. 

“That’s not what you enlisted for?” he asked. “Here I was thinking you’d joined to explore the unknown and make a difference, but I guess I was wrong.”

“Shut up,” Patrick said, pushing Pete away. “You know what I mean.”

He walked over to his bed, where three suitcases sat, ready to go. He stared at them for a moment before sighing and turning back to Pete, who was doing a masterful job of pretending not to mope. 

“Pete,” he whispered. “Pete, congratulations. I’m being a bitch.”

Pete cracked a smile. 

“I knew you would be,” he shrugged. “But I also knew you’d get over it. We’re a team. You would be my first choice for First Officer even if you weren’t the love of my life.”

Patrick flushed and looked down. They’d come a long way from stolen kisses between sims and classes at the Academy, from shared quarters on the _Vulcan_ , with matching rank and something to prove. Didn’t make the transformation awe him any less. 

“I love you too, Pete,” Patrick said. “Fine. If I’m your choice for First Officer, then fine.”

Pete kissed him messily before letting him go and sauntering out of Patrick’s room with a wink. 

Asshole. 

Patrick sighed and zipped up his last suitcase, eyes catching his shiny, brand-new Starfleet insignia, ready to be pinned on his crisp Command-gold tunic. 

Like it or not, he was going to be the best damn First Officer he possibly could be. 

 

—-

Brendon signed up for Starfleet in a kind of panic, reeling from being caught kissing a boy underneath the crucifix hung on his bedroom wall.

His father’s anger was kind of awe inspiring, and Brendon took it to heart when he’d said he wanted Brendon off this planet immediately. 

So he’d joined Starfleet and shipped out the next day. His mother cried and pleaded with him to stay home, not to go to the Academy in San Francisco, that together they could pray for Brendon’s soul and all would be forgiven. 

The thing was, Brendon didn’t want anyone praying for his soul. He thought his soul was perfectly fine, and besides, it was 2303, not 1960, it was perfectly fine to be gay and the whole religion thing was in a state of upheaval now that everyone knew God wasn’t up there in space. 

Brendon had been sixteen and was tired of being treated like a fragile child because he was the youngest. So, despite how much he knew he’d miss his mother, he turned a deaf ear to her pleas and boarded the transport ship to San Francisco to start his new life. 

Now a fresh faced cadet graduate at nineteen, he was pleased far more than he’d care to admit when he’d been sent his ship assignment. It had taken three tries to turn the holopad on to read the unbelievable words printed there.

_Ensign Brendon B. Urie_  
has been assigned to the:  
U.S.S. Clandestine (NCC-2006)  
Captain Peter L. K. Wentz III  
First Officer Patrick M. Stump  
CMO Andrew J. Hurley  
Report to Golden Gate Park for transport at 0800,  
Monday 2 April 2306 for commencement of your  
five year extended mission.

It was fine, he told himself. No pressure at all. 

—-

Spencer joined Starfleet not because he wanted to but because he had to. 

Chased out of every engineering job he’d had because he had a hell of an attitude and tended to cuss people out when they questioned his work, he was at a dead end, and when Jackie had suggested Starfleet might do him good, he couldn’t afford to scoff. 

So he joined and blew through the Academy. To his seemingly never ending surprise, he was then placed on the _Enterprise_ under Montgomery Scott.

It fit him. Scotty was a hell of an engineer, with a drinking problem to boot, and didn’t mind at all a little attitude on Spencer’s part, so long as Spencer did his job and did it well. 

Which he did, thank you very much. 

But then Scotty retired (to spend time with his remaining liver, he’d said) and then they’d retired the _Enterprise_ , which was _great_ , there went his _home_ for the past year. 

And it wasn’t like Spencer could retire. He was 26, for Galaxy’s sake. He had to request new placement. 

It shocked the cigarette ( _nasty things_ , he heard his mother saying in his head) right out of his hand when the stuttering Ensign for Captain Wentz said that the captain had specifically requested he be Head Engineer on the U.S.S _Clandestine_ of all damn ships. 

He may have been bitch but he wasn’t crazy and he wasn’t about to turn down a head engineering job, even if it was for five years and even if it was under Crazy Captain Wentz, a captain so reckless Admiral _Kirk_ told him to settle down. 

So that explained why he was here, in Golden Gate Park at eight in the goddamnned morning, waiting to board the shuttle to his new home. 

He had no idea how to be a Head Engineer, nor what to expect, but he checked his meager bag and stood in line behind a shivering dark haired kid dressed smartly in a red shirt and pants (with matching red glasses on, the fuck). He mused over his options and was just considering the feasibility of asking the kid in front of him what his concentration had been at the Academy to see if he could be his personal assistant when someone cleared their throat from behind him. 

He had half a mind to scowl at them until they shut up, but he plastered on what he hoped was a genuine looking smile and turned around, pleasantries halfway out of his mouth until he got a good look at who was standing there. 

In all his five foot four glory stood Commander Stump, a kind of legend at the Academy and beyond for being the only piece of ass around who could even halfway control Captain Wentz. Rumor had it they were roommates at the Academy and Stump was placed as First Officer purely because he was the only person Wentz would listen to. 

Spencer made a mental note to never use the phrase _piece of ass_ about Commander Stump ever again, just in case he really could read minds. 

“Commander Stump,” he said, as respectfully as he could manage now that the infamous San Francisco drizzle had started. “It’s good to finally meet you, sir.”

“Likewise,” Commander Stump nodded. “I’ve heard great things about your from Commander Scott. However, I should mention that since the _Clandestine_ is the flagship of Starfleet, we do need to adhere to certain….norms. That being said, your facial hair is not in our prescribed appearance standards and I must ask you to shave before the _Clandestine_ leaves the space dock.”

Spencer almost gaped, but luckily managed to stop that reflex before his mouth could hang open. 

_I am not shaving because no one will take my damn babyface seriously if I do_ was what Spencer wanted to say. 

“Yes, sir,” was what he somehow miraculously did say, instead of the three or four colorful swearwords currently bouncing around his head. Commander Stump nodded before turning his attention to the short boy in front of Spencer. 

“Ensign Urie,” Commander Stump snapped, and the boy jumped and turned fearfully around, looking very much like he’d shit himself the second his name left Commander Stump’s lips. 

“Y-Yes, sir,” he stammered, wide-eyed. Somehow, the kid was shorter than Stump, but Spencer was willing to bet he’d still grow and was currently only short due to inane fear of his superiors. 

“I assume Starfleet prescribed you regulation contacts?” Commander Stump said, sounding a bit more kind. 

Ensign Urie nodded, still fearful, and Commander Stump graced him with a small smile. 

“Your eyewear is a hazard aboard a starship, Ensign,” he said. “It is best if you, like me, stick to the prescribed contacts.”

“Yes, sir,” Ensign Urie mumbled, and Commander Stump nodded in satisfaction before walking away. 

Spencer exhaled a breath he didn’t know he had and turned to the Ensign. 

“You survived,” he said, teasing, and the boy turned his pale face to Spencer’s.

“Did I?” he asked shakily, and Spencer laughed. 

——-

First day. 

First _day_. 

Not even first day, actually. Before the first day. And Brendon had already been reprimanded by the First Officer. By his idol in the Academy, actually, and that was demoralizing enough. But to be told his glasses were unsafe was a real kick in the teeth. 

It’s true, he had been given contacts. It was just that he couldn’t quite manage them, alright, they were a little much to get used to having never had them growing up.

He took a solid minute to curse the idea of his religious family in his head and ignored the quiet pang that wished his mother could have seen him off today. 

What’s more, the (handsome) Commander Smith comforted him. Comforted him! As if he could ever get over that indignation! 

He tried very hard not to look over at the Head Engineer, who for some reason skipped the shuttle for primary officers and instead buckled right up next to Ensign Urie. 

Brendon was fairly sure he was going to die before the _Clandestine_ even began her mission. 

A part of him knew he was overreacting, but Brendon spent so long in the Academy trying to be perfect: perfect for his instructors, perfect in his sims, perfect for everyone. During his long trip to perfection, he’d almost lost sight of Brendon Urie. 

He remembered the night he committed himself to the medbay for a solid week. 

He sleepwalked. And sometimes his sleepwalking would take him places he shouldn’t go. Once, during his third year, right after failing for the first time, he sleepwalked right up to the roof of the dorms, and came to with one leg over the railing and ten other cadets screaming at him to stop. 

He was pretty sure he was his own legend, now. 

But somehow, even after that moment, he made it to the _Clandestine_. And made it to be reprimanded by Commander Stump, which sent his self esteem crashing right down to the ground again. 

Commander Smith leaned over to him. 

“I’m not gonna shave,” he muttered out of the corner of his mouth. Brendon stared at him in bewilderment, and Commander Smith winked. 

“You’re not?” he asked in amazement, before hastily correcting himself. “Sir?”

“You don’t need to call me sir,” Commander Smith actually rolled his eyes as he said this. Brendon felt a little weak. “I’m an accidental Commander. Call me Spencer, that’s what I’ll reply to first. And you are?”

“Ensign Urie,” Brendon said, a little stupidly. Commander Smith laughed. 

“Your real name, kid,” he said, and Brendon flushed hot red. His real name! To a Commander!

“Brendon,” he tried hesitantly, pleasantly surprised to find that he did not catch fire spontaneously by flagrantly breaking the rules. 

The shuttle rattled and groaned as it left the atmosphere and Brendon unconsciously gripped the seatbelt until his knuckles went white. 

Commander Smith’s brow furrowed as he watched Brendon. 

“It’s the plates,” he explained gently. Brendon shot him a confused look—plates? “The plates that make up the hull of outer-atmosphere transports. They shift together when the atmosphere changes. It prevents undue stress on the bow. It’s noisy, but completely safe.”

“Oh,” Brendon managed as the plates shifted again. He forced himself to relax his grip even though his heart was leaping every time there was so much as a squeak from the transport ship. “You sure?”

“Head Engineer,” Commander Smith—okay, Spencer— reminded him with a soft smile. Brendon felt himself relaxing a little more despite everything. “First time off planet?”

“Mhm,” Brendon said, heart jolting at another loud groan and shudder. “You?”

Spencer shook his head. 

“I served on the _Enterprise_ before this,” he told Brendon. 

“Under Montgomery Scott?” Brendon managed to ask. Talking to Spencer significantly helped lower the jolts of pure terror he was currently experiencing, so he thought it best to continue, despite the impropriety. 

Spencer grinned. 

“Old fart,” he said fondly. “I loved Scotty. He’s the one that convinced me to take the Head Engineer position on the _Clandestine_. The asshole.”

“You didn’t want it?” Brendon asked. Spencer grinned cheekily. 

“The job? I wanted it very much,” he said. “The rules that come with it? Not so much.” 

He tugged on his beard as if to remind Brendon. 

A loud clank and hissing made Brendon squeak and grip his seatbelt again, squeezing his eyes shut tight and Spencer laid a hand gently on Brendon’s shoulder. 

“Brendon,” he said softly. “It’s okay. We’ve just docked.”

Brendon cracked his eyes open and to his surprise, everyone was indeed unfastening their belts and preparing to disembark the transporter. 

“Okay,” Brendon managed to breathe. “Okay.”

“I forgot to ask,” Spencer said conversationally, as Brendon fought to free himself from the safety belt. “What’s your concentration? Where are you assigned?”

“Communications,” Brendon answered. “My speciality was Xenolinguistics.”

Spencer’s eyebrows shot up. 

“Xenolinguistics?” he demanded. “That takes years to master. How old are you?”

“Nineteen,” he answered, before quickly adding. “I’ll be twenty in a week.”

“Happy birthday,” Spencer said, though he looked deep in thought. “I’ll remember you, Brendon Urie.”

“Okay?” Brendon said slowly. Spencer cracked a smile. 

“Come on,” he said, instead of explaining. “We’ve got a ship to check out.”

——

“Two write ups in less than five minutes?” Pete could see Patrick’s jaw clench, but that’s part of the fun of pushing Patrick’s buttons. 

He calls it fun, anyway. Andy calls it “a wish for death”. Whatever. Semantics. 

“Your Head Engineer has a _beard_ ,” Patrick gritted out. “Would you care to imagine what an Admiral would say if he saw your Head Engineer’s _beard?_ ”

“I’d tell him to talk to Spencer himself,” Pete smirked. “And sit back and watch the show.”

Patrick very obviously resisted the urge to rub at his temples and instead shot a glare towards Pete.

“One of your Ensigns wears glasses,” Patrick chose to continue. “I’m sure after the fiasco at the Academy you’d understand why I’d wanted to correct that sooner rather than later.”

Pete remembered the fiasco at the Academy very well. It was a sim, a sim he and Patrick were kicking ass at, when something went wrong in the vacuum. Patrick’s glasses were crushed, his face lacerated (though the glass miraculously missed his eyes) and he’d gotten a thorough lecture from Admiral McCoy himself on the dangers of optical wear. 

“I’ll give you a pass on the Ensign’s glasses,” Pete said instead. “But Spencer’s beard?”

Patrick turned red, a sure sign he was badly repressing a much needed outburst. 

“We are the flagship of Starfleet,” he managed to hiss through tightly gritted teeth. Pete threw his head back and laughed over Patrick’s rant, taking him by the arm and leading him forward, to look out the main bay windows at the view they had of Earth, spinning so slowly beneath them. 

“Did you ever think we’d make it here?” Pete asked, eyes locked on the planet below. Patrick snorted and poked him in the ribs. 

“We had the highest scores at the Academy,” he pointed out. “We were the smartest ones there, and that’s not even meant to be egotistical. You know it’s true. Of course we’d end up on another starship.”

“But the _Clandestine?_ ” Pete asked, turning towards Patrick. “Did you expect that?”

Patrick narrowed his eyes.

“Sure,” he said darkly. “I expected to be in command of it, you asshole.”

Pete threw his head back and laughed, laughed until Patrick’s dark look dropped and he looked mildly amused instead. 

“Oh Trick,” he smirked. “You’re not _bitter_ , are you? I thought we resolved this.”

“Bitter?” Patrick asked, faux sweet. “Me? Never, Mr. _I-don’t-want-to-be-Captain._ ”

Pete grinned. 

“Cheer up, Patty,” he teased, dodging the smack he got for the nickname Patrick hated. “We only have five years in space. To start with.”

“Only,” Patrick muttered, and Pete was spared the need to reply by the lift doors swishing open. 

“Captain Wentz,” a voice said. “Commander Stump.”

“Spencer!” Pete’s face split into another grin. “Good to see you, mate.” 

“Good to see you too, Pete,” Spencer grinned back, formalities dropped. “Just toured the engine room, everything’s top shape and ready to go.” 

“Good,” Pete said, then cut his gaze to Patrick and said mischievously. “Spencer, honestly. Shave. We’re the flagship of Starfleet, don’t you forget.”

Spencer didn’t roll his eyes, but it looked to be a near thing. 

“Yes, sir, I’ve heard,” he muttered nearly mutinously. “Commander Stump.”

Patrick looked very near apoplexy. 

“Commander Smith,” he bit out. “If you’ll excuse me.”

With that, Patrick stalked past Spencer and into the lift. 

The second the doors swished shut, Spencer raised an eyebrow at Pete.

“He has your quarter door override codes,” Spencer pointed out. “He’ll murder you in your sleep for that.”

Pete laughed. 

“I look forward to it,” he snorted. “Did you need something, Spence, or did you just come down to rub your beard in Patrick’s face. Metaphorically. Please don’t do that literally.”

“Actually,” Spencer said, and his whole demeanor changed. He flushed a little, glancing down. “There is something.”

“What’s up?” Pete asked, surveying Spencer’s changed state with a raised eyebrow. Spencer cleared his throat and met Pete’s eyes.

“I’m not fucking him,” he said, which was _not_ what Pete expected to come out of his mouth _at all_.

“Who, Patrick?” Pete hazarded cautiously. “That’s great, because I am. Is that what you meant to say?”

“No,” Spencer said, before nodding. “Yes. But no. He drives me crazy. There’s something about him. But that’s not why I’m bringing him up.”

“Ok,” Pete said slowly. “Why don’t you tell me who you’re talking about then, because if you backtrack any harder I’m concerned you may hurt yourself.”

“Right,” Spencer said, shaking himself like a dog. “Right. Well, there’s this Ensign.”

 _An Ensign_ , Pete thought with surprise, but managed to keep his mouth shut. Patrick would be proud. 

“And I was talking with him, because I thought maybe I could press him into service as my personal assistant, but it turns out even though he’s a red shirt, he wasn’t Engineering in the Academy.”

“What was he?” Pete asked curiously. 

“Xenolinguistics,” Spencer said, and Pete’s eyebrows raised despite himself. 

“Really?” he asked incredulously. “And he’s an Ensign?”

Spencer nodded. 

“Because he’s nineteen,” Spencer explained, and Pete almost sighed. All the good ones were young. 

“Great,” he muttered. “They gave the flagship an infant.”

“He’s brilliant, though,” Spencer said earnestly. “He knows forty seven languages. Fluently. Honestly, he’s stuck in MedBay with Andy, he’d be better served on the Bridge under Zack and you know it.”

“I’ll talk to Zack,” Pete said, mind working quickly. “Forty seven? Are you sure?”

Spencer nodded again. 

“Positive,” he said. “Including Romulan and Klingon. He’s wasted down in MedBay.”

“There should be no problem transferring him,” Pete said. “What’s his name?”

“Urie,” Spencer said. “Brendon Urie.”

——

Brendon was just putting the last of his things away in the drawers underneath his bed when someone knocked on the door of the room he shared with three other Ensigns. 

He straightened up, nervously brushing invisible wrinkles out of his shirt before he pressed the button to open the door. 

He almost threw up when he saw the man standing on the other side. 

He was huge, imposing, with slicked back hair and muscles Brendon thought could easily crush his head. Easily. 

“Sir,” Brendon said, because obviously this man was a Lieutenant at the least and Brendon desperately needed to make a good impression to everyone on this ship. 

The man surveyed him for a moment before speaking. 

“Ensign Urie?” he asked in fluid Klingon, and Brendon mentally scrambled to answer. 

“Yes,” he replied, also in Klingon. He wasn’t sure if he was being tested or if the man only spoke Klingon, but either way, good impression. 

“My name is Zack Hall,” the man said, switching seamlessly to Romulan. “Head of Communications. It has come to my attention you speak many languages. How many?”

“Forty seven,” Brendon answered nervously, also in Romulan. “Sir.”

Lieutenant Hall finally smiled as he looked Brendon over. 

“Finally,” he said, in Standard. “I can replace that idiot Starfleet gave me for translations. You’ve been transferred to the Bridge.”

The _Bridge?_

“Yes, sir,” Brendon managed through the mild panic attack coursing through his system. “When should I report, sir?”

“You’ll be alpha shift,” Lieutenant Hall said. “Your first shift will be with all senior officers, just so you know. Lose the glasses.”

“Yes, sir,” Brendon said again, hurriedly plucking the red frames off his face and squinting up at Lieutenant Hall. 

He thought he saw the man grin for half a second. 

“See you at 1200 hours sharp for departure,” Lieutenant Hall said, before turning on his heel and marching away. 

Brendon pressed the hand not holding his glasses to his chest. 

The Bridge. 

——

“You put an Ensign on the Bridge,” Patrick said flatly. For a hot second he had been thinking that maybe Pete _was_ Captain material, but now he’s not so sure. “A _nineteen year old_ Ensign. What are you, Admiral Kirk?”

“He speaks forty seven languages, Patty Pie,” Pete said, smiling winningly at Patrick’s death glare. “Surely you understand why he might be an asset.”

“Forty seven?” Patrick demanded. “Where does a nineteen year old kid learn forty seven languages?”

“I guess he was bored,” Pete shrugged. “Either way, we win.”

Patrick could concede that point. 

“What’s his name?” he asked instead, but Pete was spared answering by the sound of the lift doors whooshing open. 

Out came the wide-eyed kid Patrick had chastised before launch, looking around the Bridge like he couldn’t quite believe he had been placed there. Patrick watched him compulsively smooth down his shirt and sighed. 

“Ensign Urie,” he said, answering his own question. “Welcome to the Bridge. Take your position.”

“Y-yes, Commander,” the Ensign said hurriedly, casting his gaze around until he’d located Zack. He walked quickly to Zack’s side and kind of hovered until Zack sighed and pointed to the chair next to him. 

Patrick couldn’t help but smile. The kid was cute. A liability until he lost that fear, but cute. 

“Are we ready?” Pete asked quietly. Patrick surveyed the Bridge. 

“I believe so, Captain,” he answered. “Ensign Urie, open a shipwide channel.”

“Yes, Commander,” Urie replied before flipping two switches and hovering over the broadcast button. “Whenever you’re ready.”

“Captain?” Patrick said, and Pete nodded, squaring his shoulders and stepping up to Urie and the microphone. 

“Attention crew of the U.S.S _Clandestine_ ,” Pete said, voice strong. Patrick let a grin flit across his face—like it or not, Pete could radiate confidence regardless of what he was actually feeling. “Welcome aboard and thank you for accepting your placement on our vessel for our five year mission. Our first stop is a non-Federation planet just on the outer reaches of the Blackheart Nebula. Our directive is to extend the offer of membership to this planet and it’s inhabitants. I trust that we will work together as a cohesive and well-oiled unit. Everyone aboard this vessel is needed and useful. Welcome to the next five years of your life. We will arrive at the planet, classified DC-D2 within thirty minutes. Thank you for your time. Wentz out.”

Urie flipped the switch and cut the transmission at Pete’s nod, and Patrick couldn’t help the fond smile he shot at Pete as he walked towards the Captain’s chair. 

“Captain,” he said softly. “Good job.”

“Thank you, Commander,” Pete replied, shooting his own grin back at Patrick. “Lieutenant Trohman, are you ready?”

Joe leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers behind his head, and winked at Pete.

_Do not wink at the Captain, Joe, for God’s sake._

“Aye, Captain,” Joe saluted. Patrick made a mental note to speak with Joe about the amount of respect he needed to show Pete on the Bridge. Best friends or not, he, Joe, and Andy all needed to show the rest of the crew who was in charge. 

“Excellent,” Pete replied smoothly. “Contact your husband, see if MedBay is ready for launch.”

“Aye,” Joe said again, before opening a direct channel to Andy. 

“Sugarplum,” Joe teased and the connection patched through. Ensign Urie giggled, and Joe looked pleased. 

“Call me that again and the Captain will need to find a new pilot,” Andy’s voice was cold. “What do you want, Lieutenant?”

“Is MedBay ready for launch?” Joe asked, still grinning, and Andy sighed. 

“MedBay standing by, prepared for warp,” Andy said, and Pete clapped his hands. 

“Engineering?”

“Ready for warp, sir,” came Spencer’s voice through Pete’s personal channel. “All personnel standing by.”

“Alright, Lieutenant Trohman,” Pete said, taking a seat in the Captain’s chair. Patrick moved to stand behind him, hands clasped behind his back. “Prepare for warp.”

“Detaching from spacedock now,” Joe said, narrating his actions like it was every day he piloted a spaceship under the command of one of his best friends. “Give me quarter impulse thrusters, on my mark. Go.”

Patrick felt the ship move beneath him, and his stomach gave a lurch just like every other time he found himself on a starship after a long time on shore leave. Joe expertly maneuvered the ship, following the new navigational officer’s course precisely, listening carefully as she gave him step by step directions. 

“Course laid in for DC-D2,” she said, turning to Pete. He nodded at her. 

“Thank you Lieutenant Williams,” Pete said, then cleared his throat. “Trohman? Ready?”

“Yes, sir,” Joe said, hand hovering over the warp drive. “On your mark.”

Pete grinned. 

“Punch it,” he said, and Joe pushed the drive forward. 

——

Twenty minutes in, and the warp core was purring like no other warp core Spencer’d ever heard before. 

“God, you’re beautiful,” he told the core reverently, then narrowed his eyes and searched the engine room for a sign of his hand-chosen assistant. 

“Sarah!” he called sharply. There was a rustle, then a head popped out of Coolant Pipe 1. 

“What’s up?” Sarah asked, then: “Warp core sounds good.”

“That’s because it is,” Spencer said proudly, before remembering he had been searching for her for a reason. “Harris wrench.”

“Hmmm,” Sarah mused, ducking back into the pipe. “Aha!”

She popped back up and hurled it at Spencer’s head, who counted himself lucky he had been paying attention. 

“Thanks,” he muttered, before turning to the pipe he had been retrofitting. A throat cleared from behind him. 

“Yes?” he raised his eyebrow, turning to face the blue shirt that had dared interrupt him. She looked unimpressed by his glare, however. 

“Commander Hurley would like me to tell you that he saw your assistant throw that wrench and he is not above refusing to treat Engineering for the foreseeable future,” she said, all in one breath, and Spencer’s eyebrow raised further. 

“Did he now?” Spencer asked. “Well, you may tell the dear Doctor that—”

“Tell him yourself,” she said sharply. “I’m not a communicator, I’m just Doctor Hurley’s Head Nurse.” 

“You got a name, Head Nurse?” Sarah asked conversationally, though her eyes were clearly eating the woman up. Spencer rolled his and smacked Sarah’s shoulder. Thankfully not with the hand the Harris wrench was currently occupying. 

The woman surveyed Sarah with something close to disdain before answering. 

“Nurse Ignarro,” she said finally. Sarah grinned. 

“Got a first name?” she revised, and it looked like Nurse Ignarro was barely succeeding at not rolling her eyes. 

“Not to you,” she sniffed, before turning to Spencer. “Also, the Doctor would like to remind you that you are not fully vaccinated yet and he wishes you would avail yourself to a hypospray at some point in the near future. Near meaning within the next two hours or he will, and I quote, “eject you into space”. Your choice.”

“Duly noted,” Spencer said. He kind of liked Nurse Ignarro, despite her attitude. She sighed, and turned to leave the engine room, looking very much like she wanted to disappear as quickly as possible. 

“I like her,” Sarah declared, and Spencer really did roll his eyes. 

“I can see that,” he sighed. “Alright. What are you doing in Coolant 1? Wrap it up, we’re dropping out of warp in—”

A loud screech was all the warning they got before the warp core abruptly shut down, throwing Spencer and Sarah across the engine room. Spencer hit the coolant tank hard, cracking a couple ribs at least and knocking the breath right out of him. 

Sarah fared better, merely hitting the ground hard, dazing her momentarily before she shoved herself quickly to her feet and crossed to Spencer, holding out her hand. 

“What…the hell…happened,” Spencer gasped, accepting her offered help and standing unsteadily, clutching his ribs. Sarah shook her head.

“We lost warp,” she said, pointing out the obvious. “But I don’t know how or why.”

There was a loud static crackle as the comms came back online, then Pete’s voice echoed in the engine room. 

“Wentz to Engineering, what the hell just happened?” Pete sounded calm despite his words, that Captain demeanor showing through even in the moment of crisis. Spencer could respect that. 

“Orzechowski to the Bridge,” Sarah said, getting to the comm channel faster than Spencer could even think about moving. “We’re not sure. Smith is down, I’m sure a few more injuries. MedBay, do you copy?”

“This is Hurley,” the medic’s voice had never been more welcome to Spencer. “How badly is he injured, Orzechowski?”

Sarah glanced at Spencer, who waved her off. She looked unimpressed. 

“He’s hardly able to move, sir,” she said, despite Spencer’s death glare. “Let me check the engine room for further injuries. Captain?”

“Check the room, Ensign,” Pete ordered. “Smith, stay where you are, medical is on it’s way. Andy, we have a couple injuries on the Bridge, too.”

“Copy that,” Hurley said. “I’m sending my head nurse. Nobody move.”

“Copy that,” Pete said, then the comm clicked off. Sarah glanced over at Spencer, who waved her on, watching her take off the canvas the engine room. He turned his attention to the warp core, silent where it had seconds ago been whirring quietly, and frowned. It looked…dead. But that wasn’t possible, if only for the sheer fact that they were over seven galaxies away from Earth, at least two light years from any known Starfleet base, in neutral space. They were a sitting duck. This couldn’t be happening on Spencer’s _brand new ship_.

He gritted his teeth and struggled to his feet again, clutching his side tightly as he made his way over to the core room. Inside, where the warp core should be rotating and giving off massive amounts of radioactive energy (thankfully contained in the lead-lined room), it was dead silent, no movement, no lights, and according to the PADD in the wall, no energy output. 

It was like the thing died, but warp cores have a lifespan of at least twenty years, and Spencer knew this was top-of-the-line, brand new technology. It just couldn’t be dead.

He exhaled and immediately groaned in pain before forcing his eyes back open and surveying the door. Per regulation, the warp core room sealed itself off the second the core lost power, to prevent radiation from flooding the ship if the door was opened. And Spencer wasn’t about to go crawl into the radioactive death pit to see what was wrong before running scans. He wasn’t crazy, and he wasn’t Admiral Kirk, thank you. 

He tapped a couple buttons on the PADD, running at least a rudimentary scan while he waited for Doctor Hurley. He narrowed his eyes as the numbers ran, thinking quickly over the various possibilities, disregarding each as they came to his mind. 

Core exhaustion? No, that was rare and only in cases of warps lasting longer than three days. Core malfunction? More likely, but again, the core was brand new. 

“Commander Smith,” Doctor Hurley’s voice echoed across the room. “I see you’re disregarding what I told you.”

“The core has completely shut down,” Spencer called back. “What the hell made it shut down?”

Hurley frowned. 

“Can the core even do that mid-warp?” he asked, before raising the tricorder. “Arms up.”

Spencer winced as he obeyed, feeling the tug from his broken ribs. The tricorder whirred and Hurley made a small noise. 

“Lots of bruising, four broken ribs,” he finally said. “What did you hit?”

“Got thrown against the coolant tank,” he said, gesturing toward it. “Sarah barely missed.”

“Hmm,” Hurley hummed, raising the bone mender instead. “You’re lucky it didn’t puncture your lung. Did you hit your head?”

“Don’t think so,” Spencer said, and Hurley sighed, setting the bone mender down once he’d finished and reaching for the tricorder again. “It has to be electrical overload. But how?”

“You’re the engineer,” Hurley reminded him. “No concussion. You’re lucky.” 

“Thank you,” Spencer said sincerely. “Sarah went that way.”

He pointed, and Hurley nodded before following in Sarah’s footsteps, searching for the other injuries. Spencer turned back to the core, frowning a little. 

Electrical overload. It almost didn’t seem possible, except for how it very clearly was. 

——

Brendon was halfheartedly listening to all frequencies for any incoming hails, most of his attention on the rest of the Bridge, and his fellow crewmates. 

When the ship had come to a sudden stop, he, like most of the others, had to grab onto something to prevent being thrown to the ground. Not everyone was so lucky, though. 

Commander Stump had nothing to grab and was tossed easily to the floor. He now stood stoically as the Head Nurse ran the bone mender over his badly-broken arm, face closed off and impassive. 

If Brendon hadn’t been watching so closely, he would’ve missed the flare of panic that had crossed Captain Wentz’s face the second everyone on the Bridge heard the sickening crack. 

“Commander Stump,” Captain Wentz said as soon as the Nurse stepped away. “A word, if you will. Lieutenant Trohman, you have the conn.”

“Yes, sir,” Lieutenant Trohman said, standing and walking to the Captain’s chair as Commander Stump followed the Captain out wordlessly. 

Brendon’s earpiece almost immediately crackled. He physically turned, facing the controls in concentration as faint voices started coming through, patchy. It wasn’t a transmission, as it was fading in and out and also didn’t seem to be urgently requesting response. Instead, it seemed to be a conversation, in a language Brendon was unusually slow to recognize. 

It’s….it sounded like it was Barbaron, but….they were so far from Barba space, it couldn’t be. Way out here? 

Brendon furrowed his brow, leaning into the console as if that would help him hear better. 

“What is it, kid?” Lieutenant Hall asked, shaking his shoulder a bit, but Brendon forced himself to ignore him, not wanting to lose track of the quiet voices even for a moment. 

It was definitely Barbaron, that much was clear. What’s more, it was a dialect Brendon could speak very well, better than Klingon even, thanks to his Barba roommate at the Academy. The voices were still quiet, only words and short phrases clear enough to catch, but Brendon knew he could bring them through louder. 

“Permission to alter sound frequencies, sir?” he asked, turning to Lieutenant Hall with wide eyes. The Lieutenant narrowed his eyes, but nodded, leaving Brendon to scramble at the buttons and dials, concentrating hard. 

There—that was louder, the voice sharp for a millisecond. He twists a dial and listens intently. Better. Better. Better—

_“—sure the warp core is disabled?”_

_“Yes, sir, they are unable to warp at present time.”_

_“And it’s the Clandestine, you’re positive?”_

_“Written on the hull, sir.”_

_“Very well. Surround the ship.”_

Brendon ripped his headset off. 

Pirates. 

Without even bothering to request permission to be dismissed, he raced from his post, ignoring Lieutenant Hall’s shouts behind him, and ran across the Bridge to the door the Captain had just left. He palmed the sensor until it whirred open, and then raced through. 

He came to a flailing stop around the corner as he almost literally ran into the Captain—cradling Commander Stump’s face and kissing him deeply. 

“Oh my God,” was what Brendon _so wisely_ chose to say, and the two almost comically ripped apart, looking around until they saw Brendon. 

Shit. 

“Ensign Urie,” Commander Stump recovered first, and he sounded furious. “What do you want?”

Right.

“Sirs,” he said, out of breath but desperate for them to listen. “Sirs, I’ve just intercepted and translated a conversation from a Barba ship just out of reach of our sensors. Sirs, it’s pirates, I’m positive of it.”

“Pirates?” Captain Wentz demanded. “Pirates? In neutral space?”

“Sir, I know what it sounds like,” Brendon said desperately. “I know, but I swear. They’re moving to surround the _Clandestine_ now. Our shields are down, sir.”

Captain Wentz stared at Brendon for a long moment before pushing past him to walk onto the Bridge again. 

“Lieutenant Hall,” the Captain said as he entered. “Can you recognize Barbaron?”

“Recognize, sir, but not speak,” Lieutenant Hall said. Captain Wentz nodded. 

“Ensign Urie has just informed me he translated a troubling message,” he said. “Would you please listen in on the Ensign’s headset and tell me what you hear?”

Lieutenant Hall nodded, staring at Brendon in slight confusion. Nevertheless, he picked up Brendon’s abandoned headset and pressed it to his ear, listening. 

After a moment, he looked up at the Captain. 

“Sir, it’s definitely Barbaron,” Lieutenant Hall confirmed. “What’s more, it’s not a transmission. We’re somehow able to listen in on their communications.”

Captain Wentz nodded again, looking over at Brendon.

“Sir,” Brendon pleaded. “Sir, it’s pirates. I’m sure of it.”

Captain Wentz said nothing for a long moment, before clearing his throat. 

“Shields up,” he said finally. “Red alert.”

—-

Patrick’s heart was racing. Red alert. Red alert and they’d been in space maybe thirty minutes. 

What’s more, the kid insisted it was pirates. Fucking pirates. 

He couldn’t even spare the time it would take to be angry that the Ensign so boldy chased after the Captain, nor be embarrassed to be caught like that on-duty. All his focus was on the flashing lights, the siren, and the dark expanse of space outside the bay window. 

The comm crackled. 

“Red alert?” it’s Spencer, sounding breathless. “What’s the red alert?” 

“Pirates, Commander Smith,” Pete’s voice was tight. “How’s my warp core?”

“Offline, sir,” Spencer said. “We’re working on it.”

“Work faster,” Pete ordered, eyes locked on the bay window. “Sometime in the next five minutes would be preferable.”

“I’m not a miracle worker!” Spencer protested. “I’m working as fast as I can!”

“Work. Faster,” Pete snapped again, and the comm shut off. “Lieutenant Trohman, what are our maneuvering capabilities?” 

“Uhh,” Joe said, which was not encouraging. “I have thrusters online, sir, but nothing else.”

“Sir,” Patrick said sharply. “Sir, I have visual, three o’clock.”

“I see them,” Pete confirmed lowly. “Lieutenant Hall, hail them.”

“Hailing now, sir,” Zack replied. There was a pause, then: “Nothing, sir.”

“Open a channel,” Pete ordered. There was a click as Ensign Urie obeyed, then Pete spoke. 

“This is Captain Peter Wentz of the U.S.S _Clandestine_ ,” he said, voice sure and confident. “We have our full armada of weapons currently pointed at you. Identify yourself, or risk being blown out of the very space you reside.”

There was silence for a moment. Nobody even breathed, certainly Patrick included, until the comm clicked to life again. 

Someone— _something_ spoke, but in a gravely language Patrick had never heard before. He cut his gaze to Brendon, who was wide eyed and pale, and immediately felt sick to his stomach. 

Whatever this was, it wasn’t good. 

“Ensign Urie, can you translate?” Pete said, eyes locked on the ship dead ahead of him. 

Urie nodded shakily. 

“Yes, sir,” he said hoarsely, before clearing his throat. “Um, they’re claiming to be people of the DC-D2, sir. They say we’re in their space. They know the warp core is offline.”

Shit.

“Comm,” Pete ordered. “Ensign Urie, you will translate. We are officers of Starfleet, a non-military organization sent on a mission to offer membership to the people of DC-D2. We are here in peace. We have not hurt you or anybody else. If we are not wanted here, we will retreat. Please respond.”

There was a moment as Urie finished his translation before the comm crackled once more. 

That same language made Patrick shudder, and Urie swallowed, glancing over at Pete. 

“They have our reg list, sir,” Urie said shakily. “Every single crewmember. They know—they know everything? Um, sir—”

“What do you mean, they know everything?” Pete demanded. Urie cleared his throat. 

“Barbas are telepathic, sir,” he answered, and Zack nodded in agreement. “They know everyone’s name. They know the relationships of all crewmembers.”

Pete’s jaw clenched. 

“Ask them what they want,” he said calmly, though his face showed anything but. The Ensign spoke again in the language, and this time laughter came through the conn. 

Patrick felt his stomach turn, and he looked over at Pete and knew instantly the feeling was reciprocated.

“Sir, they want us,” Urie whispered. Sure enough, the voice began listing names in a horrible accent, and Patrick felt his blood run cold. 

“Patrick Martin Stump,” the voice said, almost taunting. “Brendon Boyd Urie. Andrew John Hurley.”

There was dead silence after the three names were read, in full, in such derision, and Patrick met Pete’s eyes. 

“What do they want?” Pete repeated, and Urie, frankly, looked terrified. 

“They want the Commanders to ensure a peaceful negotiation,” he said, voice shaking. “They want me to translate.” 

“No,” Pete said firmly, and to his credit, he did not glance at Patrick once. “No. They cannot have our crew. If they cannot negotiate without crew members, they cannot negotiate and we will leave.”

The gravely voice spoke again, silencing the bridge. All eyes unanimously turned to Urie, waiting for his translation. 

“Captain,” Urie said fearfully. “Captain, _they_ knocked out our warp core. We don’t have a choice.”

——-

Pete might as well have been drowning. He honestly felt helpless, like his hands were tied and he was forced to sit and do nothing as the ship fell to hell around him. 

He protested vehemently, but Patrick was right. 

They had no choice. 

He kissed him, damn it. It was all he could do. He didn’t even care that the Bridge and Spencer and Andy were all watching. He kissed him like he was dying because hell, Pete loved that uptight man, and watching him board that shuttle was killing him. 

“I’ll be ok,” Patrick whispered. “I’ll be ok. Negotiate your stupid heart out.”

“I love you,” Pete whispered back, and Patrick kissed him. 

“I love you, too,” he said quietly, and Pete nodded. 

“I’ll be monitoring your frequencies,” Pete said firmly, and Patrick smiled, squeezing his hands before turning and boarding the shuttle. Pete took one last look before turning and booking it to the Bridge to watch the shuttle go. 

A single button and the heartrate of all three of his crew popped up on the bay window screen. All three were elevated, Urie’s the most, but then again, so was Pete’s. 

Pete watched as the jaws of the opposing ship opened and closed around the shuttle. Pete raised his arm to indicate Zack should prepare to open a comm, when the power on the Bridge fluctuated. 

The same voice from before laughed once more, before speaking, in heavily accented Standard. 

“Thank you,” they said. “For your cooperation.” 

“Sir,” Joe said frantically. “They’ve locked weapons on us!”

“Evasive maneuvers!” Pete ordered. “Divert all auxiliary power to forward shields. Now, now, now!” 

“Copy that, Captain!” Joe shouted. “Sir, they’ve locked torpedoes. Do we fire back?” 

“Our crew is on that ship!” Zack bellowed, saving Pete from the decision. “We can’t!”

“Evasive maneuvers!” Pete shouted again. “Smith, what can you do for me? Make it quick!” 

“Sir, the warp core is partially online!” Spencer shouted , the comm distorting his voice slightly as Joe borrowed power. “I can see what she can do, but I can’t promise we won’t end up in pieces all over this galaxy!” 

“Joe?” Pete demanded.

“Sir, they’re ready to fire!” Joe said frantically. “Photons and torpedoes. We won’t survive that!” 

“Captain!” Spencer shouted, as Pete stared at the opposing ship numbly. “Captain, what do I do? Do I push it?”

“Sir!” Joe cried. 

“Do it!” Pete shouted. “Do it, do it now!” 

The ship beneath him seemed to hum to life and shake as Pete knew Spencer was throwing everything he had into making this work for the ship. The entire Bridge vibrated and Joe threw the warp drive forward. 

The ship lurched before shooting into warp for three full seconds before it ground to a halt again, behind what Pete thought was a moon. 

“Status update,” Pete demanded, breathing hard. 

“Sir, the core is running on fumes,” Spencer said. Pete could picture him running his hands through his hair in frustration. “I’ll see what I can do to get it up again.”

“Do it, whatever you have to do,” Pete advised. “Joe?”

“Dead in the water,” Joe bit out. “Communications up, shields gone. Power depleted.”

“Could be better news,” Pete acknowledged lowly. “MedBay, how’s my crew?”

“All three still alive, sir,” Andy’s Head Nurse, Linda, said. “High blood pressure and heart rate, but otherwise fine.”

“My guess, sir,” Zack said slowly. “They wanted those two for ransom. They intended to wipe us out, take Commanders Hurley and Stump to Starfleet, and use Ensign Urie to translate their demands.”

“They spoke Standard, though,” Pete pointed out, pushing himself to his feet and beginning to pace. Zack shrugged. 

“Maybe not that much,” he said. “Or maybe they need him for something else. Either way, what are they going to do to them now that we’ve gotten away?”

“I wouldn’t worry,” Pete lied. It was pretty much all he could do. Judging by Joe’s tense look, he wasn’t the only one. “They’ll think of something. We’re all Starfleet’s best and brightest. Right now, we need to fix our ship. We can’t save them with a disabled ship. Smith?”

“Working on it, Captain!” Spencer called back, and Pete nodded. 

“Let’s plan,” he said, clapping his hands together. 

——

Brendon was 89.97% sure he was going to die. 

The others he felt confident would survive. They were Commanders. Starfleet would pay to get them back. But Brendon was just an Ensign. Who cared about Ensigns?

“Mr. Urie,” Commander Hurley said gently. “You need to breathe. Patrick, got that door?” 

Commander Stump threw his shoulder into it and it hissed open. He pointed his phaser out the door both directions and sighed. 

“Clear,” he said. “Let’s go. Where are they?”

“Lying in wait,” Brendon muttered, and he swore he saw Commander Stump roll his eyes. He heeded the helping hand Doctor Hurley gave him and stood, following Commander Stump and wishing he got a phaser, too. 

“What’s the plan?” Brendon whispered, and Doctor Hurley shrugged. 

“The First Officer is in charge of plans,” he said darkly, and Commander Stump sent him a dirty look.

“Can you please save it until we’re not about to die?” Commander Stump hissed, and Brendon made a high pitched noise. 

“Don’t scare the kid,” Doctor Hurley snapped. “Urie, look at me. We are probably not about to die.”

“Good to know,” Brendon managed, and, satisfied, Doctor Hurley turned back around. 

“There is literally nobody here,” Commander Stump whispered. “Urie, can you access the computer using Barbaron?”

“I think so,” Brendon said numbly. He crossed to the nearest wall computer and took a shuddering breath. 

“Computer, locate crewmembers,” he said, hoping he sounded confident. There was a pause, before the computer informed him they were all on the Bridge. 

“All of them?” Brendon said curiously. “Sir, they’re on the Bridge.”

“Ask how many crew members are aboard,” Commander Stump ordered. Brendon nodded, before relaying the information. 

“Five,” Brendon said, stunned. Five? Just five? In a ship this size?”

“They have a crew of five and they had the balls to attack the _Clandestine?_ ” Doctor Hurley demanded. Brendon didn’t even flinch at the crude language, still amazed. 

“Sir,” Brendon said suddenly. “Sir, they have weapons locked on the _Clandestine_.”

“Shit,” Commander Stump swore. “Have they fired?”

“No,” Brendon said slowly. “The _Clandestine’s_ signature is gone, sir. They’ve warped away.”

“Thank God,” Doctor Hurley whispered hoarsely. 

“Find the escape pods,” Commander Stump ordered. “If the _Clandestine_ got away, we’re no longer valuable. We need to get off this ship.”

“Cargo bay,” Brendon answered, after consulting the computer. “Two floors down.”

“Let’s go,” Commander Stump said, readying his phaser. Brendon swallowed and nodded.

——-

“I hope this works,” Sarah moaned even as she connected another electric rod to the core’s fusebox. “I really, really hope this works. And not just because if it doesn’t work, we just killed the top crew in Starfleet. But because look, Urie’s just a kid, right? He doesn’t deserve to die horribly on some spacecraft that pirates use. And—”

“Sarah,” Spencer said, as patiently as he could manage. “I’m pretty much gonna demand that you shut up now.”

“Shutting,” Sarah said, accepting the next rod and sliding it into place. “Look, it’s cool, you know? Even though he’s a kid?”

“What,” Spencer managed to grunt out as he yanked on a particularly stubborn lever. “Are you talking about.”

“Urie!” Sarah exclaimed, as if it was obvious. “It’s ok to like him, you know.”

“You keep telling yourself that,” Spencer grunted. “It’s not my business.”

“Not me,” Sarah snapped. “You, you dumbass.”

“Don’t call your commanding officer a dumbass,” Spencer sighed. “And I don’t like Brendon like that.”

“So you call him by his first name for what, fun?” Sarah asked, and Spencer rolled his eyes. 

“We are not discussing this,” Spencer said tightly. “Ignite this.”

“Ignite?” Sarah said dumbly, and Spencer cursed his patience. 

“That means ‘to set on fire’,” he gritted out, and Sarah glared at him. 

“I know what it means!” she snapped. “You want me to set a fire? In a spacecraft? Are you an idiot?”

“A small fire,” Spencer frowned, not answering the second part. “Just a small fire. We have to provide an energy source for the rods to catch onto.”

“Small fire,” Sarah muttered to herself. “Oh right, just a small fire. My mistake.”

Spencer rolled his eyes and raced across the engine room, reaching for the last rod he needed. He’d just grabbed it and was prepared to turn around when he heard a quiet _shit_.

 _Shit_ in his engine room was not good. 

He sped back to where he’d left Sarah to find a decidedly not small fire growing in front of her.

“Small fire!” Spencer shouted. “I said to set a small fire! This is not small!”

“It’s not my fault!” Sarah said instantly, which, liar. 

“Shit, ok,” Spencer muttered. “Gotta just slide this one in, and—”

There was a horrible creaking groaning noise from the inside of the warp reactor room. 

“Uh oh,” Sarah whispered next to him. Spencer shook his head at her. 

“No, it’s working,” he said, ignoring her doubtful look. “Listen, just go get the fire extinguisher. It’ll be back online by the time you get back.”

“If you say so,” Sarah muttered, and Spencer chose to ignore her. 

This was for Brendon. It had to work.

—-

“Patrick.”

Patrick groaned, blinking his eyes open blearily. Where was he? His head hurt. 

“Patrick, come on,” that was Andy’s voice, what the hell? He groaned and forced his eyes open all the way, taking in Andy’s worried, bloody face, and immediately wanting to vomit. 

“That’s it,” Andy said encouragingly. “That’s it. Wake up, that’s right.”

“What the hell,” he appealed to Andy. He couldn’t remember how to form the rest of his sentence, but he hoped his friend would understand. 

“We took their escape pod, remember?” Andy said gently. “But they shot a torpedo at us as we jumped ship. It hit us and we had to crash land here. It was kind of rough. You ok?”

“Yeah,” Patrick groaned, the events of the last hour coming back to him full force. “Jesus Christ. The kid?”

“He’s fine,” Andy said soothingly. “Broken arm, but fine. Can you sit up?”

“Yeah,” Patrick agreed, gritting his teeth and forcing himself into a sitting position. “What do we do?”

“Well, they’ll come for us,” Andy said bracingly. “I’m sure of it. We have to establish contact with the _Clandestine_ to get beamed back. The only problem is—”

A face popped into the escape pod, eyes wide, a huge grin spread across their face. 

“The angels have woken up!” they said, and Patrick’s jaw dropped. 

“Holy shit,” he managed, and Andy laughed humorlessly. 

“Pretty much,” he agreed. “Come on, let’s go.”

Andy wrapped his arms around Patrick’s middle and tugged.

“They’re primitive?” Patrick hissed, even as he obeyed Andy’s urging hands and stood. “That's perfect. How are we going to establish communication with primitive technology?”

“Well, that’s the thing,” Andy said, taking Patrick’s hand as he stumbled. “They have basic short-range communicators. Urie, he convinced them they have to reach God. He’s hooking them together to sort of…cobble together some sort of long range device. Not sure if it’s going to work.”

“Doesn’t this violate the Prime Directive?” Patrick whispered, the realization dawning on him. 

“You know what else will violate the Prime Directive?” Andy asked. “A bunch of pirates descending on their village. We have to beam out before their scanners find us.”

“How’s that going?” Patrick asked, and Andy shrugged. 

“He’s working on it,” he said. “Sit down. They have water. You will drink it.”

“Yes, sir,” Patrick grinned wryly. He sighed, and looked up. 

Somewhere up there, Pete was waiting for him. He wasn’t going to let him down. 

——

The _Clandestine_ was counting on him. He wasn’t going to let them down. 

That was repeating over and over in Brendon’s head as he frantically worked with one shaking hand to connect together ancient communicators in the hopes of making them work long-range. 

He thought he almost had it. Just a few more tweaks, maybe. 

He hoped. Oh God, did he hope. 

The sound of engines almost didn’t register in his head, nor did the shouts of the villagers, until their words echoed over and over in his head, finally jarring him from his working frenzy. 

“Angels! Angels!”

He was officially out of time. This communicator had to work. 

He took a deep breath. 

“Urie to _Clandestine_! Urie to _Clandestine_!” he shouted through the microphone. “Can you read me?”

There was a pause, almost too long for Brendon to bear, but then—

“We read you, Urie,” the voice was unfamiliar, but so, so welcomed. “Loud and clear, over.”

“Urie to _Clandestine_ , requesting immediate emergency beam out, do you read?” Brendon yelled over the noise of the engines getting louder. “Beam us out, please beam us out!”

“Three crew members, emergency beam,” the voice said. “I read you. Stand by.”

“No,” Brendon shouted, even as the villagers began screaming in terror, running by him in droves. “No, we cannot stand by! Emergency beam out, now, now, now!”

“We read you, Urie,” the voice said. “Stand together and hold on!” 

Brendon dropped the microphone and raced over to Commander Stump and Doctor Hurley. 

“They’re going to beam us out,” he gasped. “Hold on, they’re going to beam us out.”

Commander Stump’s eyes were locked on the approaching ship, phaser drawn in his shaking hand. 

“Come on,” Brendon breathed. “Come on.” 

He began to feel the familiar tingling through his body that meant the transporter was starting to work. He looked down at his body to see the familiar beams of light surrounding him, he looked up to see the incoming ship’s guns locked on Commander Stump. 

“No!” he shouted, even as he felt himself dematerialize, and he dove in front of his Commander as the ship fired, hitting Brendon in the stomach. 

He was unconscious before he hit the platform.

——

It was weird how, even after getting Brendon into MedBay, even after outrunning the pirates, even halfway home, the frantic panic that had set into Spencer’s bones the second Brendon got captured hadn’t left.

Spencer guessed it wouldn’t leave until Brendon woke up. 

“You know,” he whispered to the sleeping kid. “They’re gonna promote you after this.”

“Is that so,” Brendon whispered hoarsely, cracking one eye open to look at Spencer. Brendon had a small grin on his face, one that Spencer matched, fighting against a bigger one. 

“Yeah,” Spencer said. “I’d bet Lieutenant at the very least. You know what that means?”

“What does that mean?” Brendon asked, still grinning. Spencer swallowed down his pounding heart.

“It means that this won’t be so weird,” he replied, and leaned down to press his lips against Brendon’s. 

He drew back and looked at Brendon guardedly, his heart hammering in his chest. 

Brendon just grinned up at him for a moment before laughing. 

“What’s so funny?” Spencer asked, quietly, lacing his fingers with Brendon’s. 

Brendon shook his head. 

“I’m glad,” he said simply. 

“About what?” Spencer asked, leaning down to kiss Brendon’s warm forehead. 

“I’m glad I didn’t throw up on you in the shuttle,” Brendon whispered with a grin, and Spencer laughed. 

“Wouldn’t like you any less if you had,” he said, and Brendon kissed him. 

 

\-----

_**Epilogue** _

There was an informal gathering two floors up, celebrating the impending launch of the newly-repaired _Clandestine_ , but Pete couldn’t be bothered to attend.

He had more important things to do. 

Like kissing Patrick, that was more important. Running his hands over his soft skin, that was more important, too. 

Memorizing the feel of his lips, the soft sigh he made when Pete pulled away to mouth at his neck, the weight of the ring in his pocket--all more important than his ship right now. 

“I love you,” he whispered for what felt like the thousandth time since Patrick came back to him from the pirates. “Oh my God, I love you so much.”

Patrick pressed his answering smile to Pete’s cheek, lacing their fingers together and giggling breathlessly. 

Pete’s communicator beeped. He ignored it. 

“I love you, too,” Patrick murmured, pressing a soft kiss to Pete’s lips. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I’m glad you’re my Captain.”

“Are you propositioning your commanding officer?” Pete teased. “That’s a serious offense. I might have to take disciplinary action.”

Patrick snorted. 

“Yeah, good luck with that,” he sniped, before lightly biting at Pete’s neck. “I’m sure everyone will believe you.”

Pete’s communicator beeped again. He groaned loudly before yanking it out of his pocket and flipping it open. 

“This is Captain Wentz,” he snapped. “Who is very unhappy to be interrupted right now.”

“Captain,” Andy’s voice was unamused. “We are prepared to launch, but if you are otherwise engaged, I would be happy to reassign the commanding officers. Perhaps Lieutenant Urie could Captain the _Clandestine?_ ”

“Hold your horses, your Captain and First Officer are coming,” Pete laughed. “I’d like to see Urie _try_ and command a starship.”

“Get here quickly or that wish will be granted,” Andy snapped. “You have plenty of time to make out with your boyfriend later.”

“Yes, sir,” Pete smirked before flipping the communicator shut. “Well, you heard the man, Patrick.”

Patrick grinned, kissing Pete firmly. 

“Are you ready?” he asked, holding out his hand. “We’re overdue for our five year mission.”

Pete laughed and linked his hand with Patrick’s. 

“Come on, loser,” he teased. “We’re gonna boldly go.”

“Oh my God,” Patrick complained, even as Pete laughed louder and tugged him down the hall. “Did you seriously just quote _that?_ ”

Pete ignored him, pulling him forward, closer to the _Clandestine's_ bridge and closer to their next adventure. 

It was time to go now.

**Author's Note:**

> if i got anything wrong feel free to yell at me at my home smalltalktorture.tumblr.com (or just visit me i'm lonely)


End file.
